The Darrow Enigma by Melvin L. Severy (best fiction novels of all time TXT) 📖

My kindest regards to Miss Darrow.

Yours sincerely,

GEORGE MAITLAND.

 

P. S. I shall have leisure now on shipboard to set tie that question

of atomic pitches, which is still a thorn in my intellectual flesh.

 

I handed this letter to Gwen, and, after she had read it through

very carefully, she questioned me about this new theory of Maitland’s.

I went through the form of telling her, after the usual practice of

amiable men discoursing to women, feeling sure she would be no wiser

when I had finished, and was dumfounded when she replied: “It looks

very reasonable. Professor Bjerknes, if I remember the name, has

produced all the phenomena of magnetic attraction, repulsion, and

polarisation, by air vibrations corresponding, I suppose, to certain

fixed musical notes. Why might not something similar to this be

true of atomic, as well as of larger, bodies?”

 

If the roof of my house had fallen in, I should not have been more

surprised than at this quiet remark. How many times had I said:

“You can always count on a young woman, however much she flutter over

the surface of things, being ignorant of all the great underlying

verities of existence”? I promptly decided, on all future occasions,

to add to that - ” When not brought up by her father.” I was

convinced that of the attainments of a girl educated by her father

absolutely nothing could be definitely predicted.

 

We had a short note from Maitland written at Trieste. He excused

its brevity by saying he had been obliged to travel night and day

in order to reach this port in time to catch the Austrian Lloyd

steamer Helois, bound for Aden, Bombay, Ceylon, Singapore, and Hong

Kong. From Aden I received the following:

 

MY DEAR DOCTOR:

 

We have just been through the Red Sea, and I know now the real origin

of the Calvinistic hell. Imagine it! A cloudless sky; the sun

beating down with an intolerable fierceness; not a breath stirring,

and the thermometer registering 120 degrees F. in the shade! It

seemed as though reason must desert us. The constant motion of the

punkas in the saloons, and an unlimited supply of ice-water was all

that saved us. Sleep was hardly to be thought of, for at no time

during the night did the mercury drop below 100=B0 F. Apart from the

oppressive heat referred to, the entire voyage has been exceedingly

pleasant. I have not solved the atomic-pitch problems, as attendance

at meals has left me little time for anything else. They seem to

eat all the time on these boats. At 8 A. M. coffee and bread; at

ten a hearty breakfast of meat, eggs, curry and rice, vegetables and

fruit; at 1 P. M. a luncheon, called “tiffin,” of cold meats, bread

and butter, potatoes, and tea; at five o’clock a regular dinner of

soups, meats with relishes, farinaceous dishes, dessert, fruits, and

coffee, and lastly, at 8 P. M., the evening meal of tea, bread and

butter, and other light dishes. Five meals a day, and there are some

English people who fill up the gaps between them by constantly

munching nuts and sweets! Verily, if specialisation of function

means anything, some of these people will soon become huge gastric

balloons with a little wart on top representing the atrophied brain

structure. They run their engines of digestion wholly on the

high-pressure system.

 

After eight days’ voyage on the Indian Ocean we shall be in Bombay.

I must close now, for there is really nothing to say, and, besides,

I am wanted on deck. My engagement is with a Rev. Mr. Barrows,

who is bound as missionary to Hong Kong. This worthy Methodist

gentleman is very much exercised because I insist that potentiality

is necessity and rebut his arguments on free-will. He got quite

excited yesterday, and said to me severely: “Do you mean to say,

young man, that I can’t do as I please?” I must say I don’t think

his warmth was much allayed by my replying: “I certainly mean to

say you can’t please as you please. You may eat sugar because

you prefer it to vinegar, but you can’t prefer it just because you

will to do so.” He has probably got some new arguments now and is

anxious to try their effect, so, with kind regards to Miss Darrow

- I trust she is well - I remain,

Cordially your friend,

GEORGE MAITLAND.

 

P. S. (Like a woman I always write a postscript.) You shall hear

again from me as soon as I reach Bombay.

 

This last promise was religiously kept, though his letter was short

and merely announced his safe arrival early that morning. He closed

by saying: “I have not yet breakfasted, preferring to do so on land,

and I feel that I can do justice to whatever is set before me. I

intend, as soon as I have taken the edge off my appetite, to set out

immediately for Malabar Hill, as I believe that to be our proper

starting-point. I inclose a little sketch I made of Bombay as we

came up its harbour, thinking it may interest Miss Darrow. Kindly

give it to her with my regards. You will note that there are two

tongues of land in the picture. On the eastern side is the suburb

of Calaba, and on the western our Malabar Hill. Goodbye until I

have something of interest to report.”

 

I gave the sketch to Gwen, and she seemed greatly pleased with it.

 

“Are you aware,” she said to me that Mr. Maitland draws with rare

precision?”

 

“I am fully persuaded,” I rejoined, “that he does not do anything

which he cannot do well.”

 

“I believe there is nothing,” she continued, “which so conduces to

the habit of thoroughness as the experiments of chemistry. When one

learns that even a grain of dust will, in some cases, vitiate

everything, he acquires a new conception of the term ‘clean’ and is

likely to be thorough in washing his apparatus. From this the habit

grows upon him and widens its application until it embraces all his

actions.”

 

This remark did not surprise me as it would have a few weeks before,

for I had come to learn that Gwen was liable at any time to suddenly

evince a very unfeminine depth of observation and firmness of

philosophical grasp.

 

Maitland had been gone just six weeks to a day when we received from

him the first news having any particular bearing upon the matter

which had taken him abroad. I give this communication in his own

words, omitting only a few personal observations which I do not feel

justified in disclosing, and which, moreover, are not necessary to

the completeness of this narrative:

 

MY DEAR DOCTOR:

 

I have at last something to report bearing upon the case that brought

me here, and perhaps I can best relate it by simply telling you what

my movements have been since my arrival. My first errand was to

Malabar Hill. I thought it wise to possess myself, so far as

possible, of facts proving the authenticity of Mr. Darrow’s narrative.

I found without difficulty the banyan tree which had been the

trysting-place, and close by it the little cave with its mysterious

well, - everything in fact precisely as related, even to the

“Farsees’” garden or cemetery, with its “Tower of Silence,” or

“Dakhma,” as it is called by the natives. The cave and the banyan

are among the many attractions of what is now Herr Blaschek’s villa.

This gentleman, with true German hospitality, asked me to spend a

few days with him, and I was only too glad to accept his invitation,

as I believed his knowledge of Bombay might be of great service to

me. In this I did not mistake. I told him I wished to ascertain the

whereabouts of a Rama Ragobah, who had been something between a rishi

and a fakir, and he directed me at once to a fakir named Parinama

who, he said, would be able to locate my man, if he were still alive

and in Bombay.

 

You can imagine how agreeably surprised I was to find that Parinama

knew Ragobah well. I had anticipated some considerable difficulty

in learning the latter’s whereabouts, and here was a man who could=20

- for a sufficient consideration - tell me much, if not all, about

him. I secured an interpreter, paid Parinama my money, and

proceeded to catechise him. I give you my questions and his answers

just as I jotted them down in my notebook:

 

Q. What is Ragobah’s full name?

 

A. Rama Ragobah. =20

 

Q. How long have you known him?

 

A. Thirty-five year.

 

Q. Has he always lived in Bombay?

 

A. No, Sahib,

 

Q. Where else?

 

A. For a good many year he have travel all the time.

 

Q. Is he in Bombay now?

 

A. No, Sahib.

 

Q. Where is he?

 

A. Over the sea, Sahib.

 

Q. Do you know where?

 

A. He sail for America; New York.

 

Q. When?

 

A. About eleven week ago.

 

Q. Do you know for what he undertook this journey?

 

A. Some personal affair of long time ago which he wish to settle - the

same which make him so many year travel through India.

 

Q. Was he in search of someone?

 

A. Yes, Sahib.

 

Q. Some Indian woman?

 

A. No, Sahib.

 

Q. Some other woman, then?

 

A. No, Sahib.

 

Q. A man, then; an Englishman,

 

A. Yes, Sahib.

 

Q. What kind of a man is this Ragobah?

 

A. He very big man.

 

Q. What is his disposition? Is he generally liked?

 

A. No. His temper bad. He cruel, revengeful, overbearing, and

selfish. He most hated by those who best know him.

 

Q. He is a friend of yours, you say?

 

A. I say no such thing! Do you think I sell secret of friend? I

have great reason for hating him, or I not now be earning your money.

 

Q. Ah! I see. What did you say he wanted of this Englishman?

 

A. I no say, Sahib.

 

Q. You said some personal affair of long standing, I believe.

 

A. Yes, Sahib.

 

Q. Do you know its nature?

 

A. No; I not know it, but I have not much doubt about it, Sahib.

 

Q. What do you think, then?

 

A. I think there but one passion strong enough in Ragobah to make

plain his hunt like dog for last twenty year. Such persevere mean

strong motive, and as I have good reason to remember how quick he

forget a kindness, I know he not moved by friendship, Sahib.

 

Q .His motive then is -=20

 

A. Revenge.

 

Q. Have you any idea why he cherishes this malice?

 

A. I think it because some old love affair; some rival in his wife’s

love.

 

Q. Indeed! Then he has been married?

 

A. Yes, Sahib.

 

Q. Where shall I find his wife?

 

A. All that is left of her is in the bottomless well in the cave on

Malabar Hill.

 

Q. Did Ragobah kill her?

 

A. No; that is, not with his own hand.

 

Q. How long ago did she die?

 

A. More than twenty year, Sahib.

 

Q. Are any of her relatives living?

 

A. Her husband, Sahib, and a cousin, that is all.

 

Q. Is there anyone else who could tell me of this woman?

 

A. Moro Scindia could, but he not do it.

 

Q. Why? Is he Ragobah’s friend?

 

A. Ragobah has no friends, Sahib.